


we may shine, we may shatter

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Multi, OT5 Friendship, one direction - Freeform, zianourry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry talks slow and at first it’s funny, but then it’s not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we may shine, we may shatter

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt by a very sweet anon on tumblr, first zianourry thing i've written and idk?
> 
> prompt: you know how the boys tease harry about how slow he talks and his stories? harry starts to get a bit hurt and insecure because of it. they make fun of his stories and he feels bad and like they don’t like him when they do and it makes him think that they don’t like him. harry stops talking very much around them and pretty much only speaks when spoken to and even then has really short answers. boys find out what’s bothering him etc etc. ot5. If you have time please write this :) thanks.
> 
> bibbedy-bobbedy-disclaimer

It starts with banter, because their friendship is cemented by it.

Harry’s always been a slow talker, and it’s never bothered him – it’s never bothered anyone – it’s just a trait of his, just him. So when Louis makes a joke about it, he doesn’t think anything of it – he even laughs about it. (It’s Louis, and it’s funny, can you blame him?)

But it breaks down the dam, and suddenly, there’s one or two or several mentions of Harry’s not-so-speedy speech a day. They’re not so bad – sometimes they’re even funny, really – but they slowly seep from _in private_ to _during interviews_ and _on stage_ , which, well.

At first he laughs with the lads, but after a while the banter gets repetitive and less funny to him – while the others still can’t get enough of it.

Once, during an interview, he’s telling a story about what happened to him a few days ago. It’s a funny story, and it probably would’ve made people laugh – Harry likes making people laugh, he loves the look on their faces – if it wasn’t interrupted by Louis making a remark about how not-interesting his stories are because he really does talk slowly, how people lose track halfway, how much of a loon he is.

“You do talk some rubbish, don’t you, Harry?”

Which makes everyone laugh too, but Harry really doesn’t see what’s so funny about it. He’s grumpy for the rest of the day, doesn’t speak much at all. He’s pissed at Louis for making fun of him and he’s pissed at the lads for laughing and he may also be pissed at himself for talking so slow but _he really can’t help it_.

It isn’t until he’s lying in bed at night, alone and staring at the dark ceiling, that his annoyance weakens and something else starts trickling heavily down his stomach.

He really does talk slow, doesn’t he? He’s never really met anyone who talks slower than he does, or even anyone who talks at the same tempo. If it was him, he’d maybe – probably – be irritated too, having to listen to someone talking twice as slowly.

He’s never made much of a problem of it, never known anyone who did, but.

They’re right, aren’t they?

* * *

In the morning, everyone seems to have forgotten Harry’s bad mood from the day before, except for the boy himself.

He’s not surly anymore, doesn’t blame his bandmates. He’s just – hurt, a bit?

(Really, how would you feel if someone basically told you your stories are shit?)

So he tries not to let anyone see how it’s touched him, tries to act cheery and normal.

Now, Harry is not much of an actor at all. He can’t lie for the life of him – he’s transparent, he’s a glass house, everyone can see inside and he’s breakable. He’s never been able to take criticism very well, and it so happens that he is his own worst critic, that he beats himself up about every one of his flaws. It’s just a type of people, people like him, that’s prone to insecurities.

And now he has something that’s different from the usual, and being different is much harder than being the same when you’re _that_ type of people.

He starts to notice his own slow talking, starts to notice how pointless his stories usually are – and it’s pretty awful because he can’t change it, because he can’t run away from it, because it’s _him_ , because the only thing he can do is notice it and hate it and crumple inwards, inwards, inwards.

Harry is not much of an actor at all, can’t lie for the life of him, so of course the boys notice eventually.

 “What’s wrong?” they ask.

“Why would there be something wrong?”

Because why would there be? It was just him and him being stupid and him being him and he shouldn’t bother them with it, wouldn’t bother them.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?”

And he curses himself for not being able to talk faster, cringes every time he opens his mouth because he knows what’s coming. He tries to keep his sentences as short as possible.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

And he’s not much around people anymore, doesn’t try to make them laugh. He’s a people pleaser, Harry is – but he can’t do much if he’ll annoy them with his voice, so he reckons. He doesn’t want to annoy him and doesn’t want them to dislike him even more. So he closes the curtains of his glass house and every night when their gig is over he goes to lie down in his bunk and closes the curtain, stares at the wood above him or plays games on his phone or goes on twitter.

Which doesn’t turn out to be a brilliant idea at all, unfortunately. He often scrolls down his feed and replies to fans – he likes to think he makes them smile – and once, he comes across a tweet with a link to a video.

It’s one of their interviews, he finds, but speeded up. While the interviewer and the other lads sound like chipmunks on crack, he’s the only one speaking at a normal speed.

Harry shuts off his phone and covers himself with his blanket and he feels lonely.

And he crumples inwards, inwards, inwards.

* * *

“Harry, for god’s sake, sit down and tell us what the fuck is wrong.”

The boy stops in his track, stops walking towards the bunks (routine, routine), and looks at Zayn.

“But –”

“If you’re gonna say nothing’s wrong, I might hit you in the face.”

Harry sits down on one of the benches promptly, but doesn’t say a word. Four pairs of eyes are watching him – curiously? Worriedly? Are watching him.

Then Liam sits down next to him. “We’ve talked about it, Harry, and we really want to know what makes you so sad all the time.”

“Yeah, we want to help, mate,” Niall adds.

Harry doesn’t want to tell them. He doesn’t want to annoy him with his insecurities and he doesn’t want them to think he’s whining and he doesn’t want them to dislike him for it and he doesn’t want to be a _burden_.

But he’s been lonely and they’re listening to him, listening for once, and fuck it.

“I just want you to like me,” he admits quietly, and it sounds more pathetic than it’s meant to. It’s almost embarrassing.

They’re all fussing then, all four of them speaking at once and none of the understanding.

“What do you mean?”

“Of course we like you!”

“What are you even saying, you silly boy?”

“You’re nuts, pal, you are.”

“Why would you say that?”

And he’s spilling over, ripping his curtains off, becoming transparent again. He tells them, tells them everything that’s been spooking about in his head for the last week. It’s not like it’s easy, the telling – his voice is wavering dangerously and a few times he’s almost stopping, but then Liam scoots closer or Louis twirls his fingers around a curly strand of his hair and he continues, until he’s done, and it’s quiet.

“You really are nuts though,” Niall breaks the silence. “You thought we didn’t like you because you _talk slow_?”

Harry’s mouth twitches uneasily, because when it’s put like that, it sounds even dumber than it is.

“I’m almost offended, mate,” Zayn says, shaking his head at him and smiling.

“M’sorry?” Harry offers.

Louis pulls his hair. “Christ, Harry, don’t apologise! It’s not your fault, for god’s sake, it’s just insecurity. Happens to the best of us, right boys?” He leans closer then, and warm breath tickles Harry’s ear. “I know I laugh at you a lot, but, I love how you talk. I miss it.”

And finally, finally, after days of gloom, Harry smiles.

“There we go!” Louis crows, and he snuggles his tiny body up to Harry’s side, nudging his nose in the crook of his neck.

Liam says, “We’re sorry for bantering so much about it, okay? We don’t hate how you talk, it’s funny, but it’s you. Can’t imagine it any other way, either.” He grins, and runs his hand through Harry’s hair, messes it up.

“We love you, pal.”

Zayn barks a laugh. “Niall, you sap.”

“What? Someone had to say it.”

And Harry smiles, and smiles when they sit on the sofa and watch the telly for the rest of the evening. He smiles when Niall hugs him and Zayn gives him a kiss on the cheeks to say goodnight, and smiles when Liam mouths _love ya, buddy_ before he switches the light off and when Louis playfully blows him a kiss and winks. He smiles when he can’t fall asleep because his cheek muscles hurt a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: lewdis
> 
> penis for your thoughts?


End file.
